


the carriage held but just ourselves and immortality

by queenofthestarrrs



Category: DCU, Wonder Woman (2017), Wonder Woman - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 07:24:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11122539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofthestarrrs/pseuds/queenofthestarrrs
Summary: Steve Trevor does not greet death like a friend.





	the carriage held but just ourselves and immortality

 I.

Antiope does not teach her about death during their training together.  
  
She teaches Diana how to stitch up her own wounds if she must. She teaches her how to push through any pain that stands in her way to keep fighting, keep winning. She teaches her how to swallow, swallow, swallow until battle becomes her only focus. She her that her body and her mind are the only weapon are the only weapon that she can truly ever have mastery over, the only weapon that will never fail her.

 

Death is never on their minds. Death does not haunt the halls of the palace or the shores of Themyscira.  Ares has not touched this place. He has not sown discord and anger and violence here. That’s what Antiope tells Diana. But she also tells her that there will be a time when Ares does, that even the Amazons are not safe from the inevitable bile that will swallow the world whole. When that time comes, they all must be ready.  
  
When she passes, body shuddering in Diana’s arms, sand running red with her blood, she smiles in her last moments. Over the last squabbles of battle and the gut wrenching sobs of the Amazons, Antiope smiles. She allows the last of the sand in her palm to slowly drift away, like the grains in a timepiece.

 

 

II.

  
There is always a part of her dream that she lingers on.  
  
It’s an impossible occurrence.  
  
The sun did not shine on that day, and it was brutally cold out. There should be no reason that the sun would be warming her skin and that a pleasant breeze would pass through her hair.

 

Steve Trevor died in a plane. His body was burnt to a thousand little ashes. There would be no reason that he would be on the ground with her, safe, blue eyes filled to the brim with tears and a watery smile.

 

She knows she will never marry a man, isn’t even entirely sure if she has the concept of a marriage properly sorted out. There would be no reason that she and Steve would be promising to love each other until death and know that the other meant it.

 

 

III.

 

They are sitting in a cafe in London.  
  
Since the war has ended, it seems as if the heavy gray cloud that permanently hung low over the streets had finally lifted. There seemed to be color in the air again. From beyond the window,  women were bustling down the street wearing dresses of deep blues and hunter greens and vivid reds toting along children in school uniforms of yellows and whites. Men have even expanded their wardrobe. No longer are the streets packed with men wearing drab and dirty military uniforms.

 

Etta returns quickly to their table, breakfast and newspaper in hand.  
  
“Scones,” she says, pushing a small cake packed with blue fruit beyond the vase of little purple flowers that sits between them. “There absolutely scrumptious. I can’t eat just one.”

 

She laughs and laughs as she collapses into the seat across from Diana and produces a small paper bag from behind her back. “Good thing I got more than one. A little mid morning fuel for the dreary day at the office, I suppose.”

 

“Votes for Women,” Diana looks puzzled at the paper, almost ignoring her food completely. “Is that what that says? Are women not allowed to participate in your government?”  
  
Etta’s smile dampers a bit. “Soon, Diana. We’re right on the edge of the vote. We’ll be there soon.”  
  
“Now, eat your scone. They’re not very good when they’re cold.”

 

 IV.

Diana is already dressed for the day.   
  
Her armor is secure. The Godkiller is carefully fascinated in its sheath. Her shield is well polished and the straps tightened. Even her diadem is carefully placed on her forehead, pushing her hair out of her face.   
  
“Steve, we have to leave now.”   
  
Steve offers up a chuckle from the bed that they shared last night. He’s puffing away on a pipe that he found in one of the drawers, the smell of cheap tobacco drifting out the open window. He’s naked for all but the briefs he somehow managed to pull onto his body before they fell asleep last night. Lovebites dot his chest, and he’s smiling.

 

“We’re already at the war, Diana. The world can wait for me to finish this pipe, and maybe something else.”  
  
And before she knows it, she is kissing him, a ghost of smile still lingering on her face.  

 

  
V.

 

Diana is a small child, carefully huddled in her mother’s arms.

 

Her mother smells like lilacs and the sea and all things that are warm and comforting. She is petting Diana’s head, scratching her behind the ears, playing small sections of her hair until her daughter’s eyes finally droop. Diana is a rambunctious child, already through three tutors and it looks as if Aenesidemos was about to quit as well. Hippolyta was never entirely sure that she was ready for a daughter. Oh she had ached for one, wanted one so badly that she swore that the girl had come to her in her sleep, simply to taunt her dreams.  
  
For all of Diana’s difficulty, for all of her disobedience and vigor and mischief, Hippolyta would not trade her for all of the world.

 

Diana is drifting off into sleep. Her whole body is begging her to succumb to rest, to be a peace for at least a few hours. Her mother is pulling her closer, sleep warmed body held against the queen’s cool skin. Just before the blackness comes to her, Diana hears Hippolyta’s voice.  
  
“I wish you could stay like this forever.”  


VI.

 

Steve does not greet death as a friend.

 

Steve greets death like a great aunt who has overstayed her welcome.

 

Warm and graciously, of course, he is a gentleman and the son of a preacher and a man of West Point. But at the same time, he’s annoyed, wants the whole ordeal to be gone.

 

He doesn’t want to die, not really. He expected it. He assumed that this war would be the death of him, either by cyanide or gunshot or mustard gas or something. It seemed so _romantic_ to him, to die in service of his country, to save the whole world. He just didn’t expect it to come so soon.  
  
He was young. He was young and his sister was going to get married when her sweetheart came home from the world. He was young and his mother was going to mourn him. He was young and he could be a general or a diplomat or something much more noble than a spy. He was young and he was in love.  
  
He was young and the timer was ticking.  
  
  
VII.

 

They’re staring at the empty case where Robin’s armor used to be.

 

It’s cold down here. Gooseflesh pimples up and down her exposed arms. Diana wishes she had brought her cloak. Bruce, on the other, seems unaffected. He is simply peering ahead, eyes misty.  
  
“Do you ever wish we had more time, Diana?”  
  
“No.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm just gonna put it out there. Steve Trevor Captain America'd better than Steve Rogers. 
> 
> Also, check me out on Tumblr @preppypotato.


End file.
